


Not Yet Gods, Not Quite

by Slim Shady (NoraPenblood)



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Canon-Typical Drug Use, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Klok, Trans Character, canon-typical mental illness stuff that i'm gonna be getting into, flippancy about mental illness, fluff so far but i'll add warnings as needed, kind of?? mostly just pre-toki, mentions of anxiety disorders, pre-mordhaus, trans! pickles, unless it gets longer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoraPenblood/pseuds/Slim%20Shady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is gonna be lots of domestic stuff, mostly just business as usual around the guys apartment after Magnus gets kicked out but before Toki gets there. Miiiight continue on past Toki's arrival, I dunno yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i dunno what i'm doing, I'm not used to this kind of fluffy stuff, but here we go!

Pickles lit his bed on fire. He’d been stretched out across the blankets with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other, his consciousness waning as soft, black dots swirled in front of his eyes. It felt good. Always felt so good to black out.

One minute he was almost asleep and the next it was too-hot and he was inhaling smoke. He jumped out of bed, hollering like a maniac as he swatted at the flame with a nearby shirt. Luckily enough, he managed to put it out before burning the whole damn apartment down, but he was stuck with a hole in the center of his mattress and- oh, that was puke on the sheets. He must’ve puked again. 

He can’t sleep in that shit, even with as wobbly and intoxicated he is. Murderface is already on the couch and Skwisgaar is passed out in the middle of the Livingroom floor. He’s got no choice, he’s drunk, he stumbles down the hall. “Nathan? Nate'n.” 

The man’s sleeping, shirtless, but he sits up when he hears Pickles call him, grunting a little and squinting at the drummer slouched in his doorway.

"IIIII... lit my beeeeed on fire again." He drags out the words like he always does when he’s drunk, trying to avoid getting yelled at. 

Nathan looks uninterested, raises an eyebrow. "Uh. So?" 

"So lemme sleep in here, douchebag." He laughs and stumbles in, drops himself on the side Nathan's not occupying. 

The frontman wants to argue, wants to kick him out, tell him this is some gay shit, but. He doesn't. He’s tired and his shoulder is sore from that fucking stab wound and he just exhales, lets Pickles worm his way under the blankets.

The other man smells like smoke and puke. It shouldn't be as calming as it is - it reminds him of practice, reminds him of after shows when they’re all crammed together backstage and Pickles bumps into him, knocking back a full bottle of tequila. He shouldn’t think that’s cool, shouldn't think that’s hot, but goddamnit... it’s so sick, watching him drain the whole thing without a breath, looking into those red, watery eyes and hearing him let out that stupid "Wooohoooo" shit. He doesn’t pick further into the implications of that memory, just shuts his eyes and grumbles, rubs his face into the pillow. 

He’s almost asleep when Pickles scoots over, burps against his hair. He groans a little, making minimal effort to shove him back. "If you puke on me, I'll kill you. Seriously." He mumbles, still into the pillow. 

Pickles either doesn't hear or doesn't care, looping one bony arm around Nathan’s belly and pressing himself up against him, face still buried against the back of Nathans neck. "Hey...heeeeeey......Nate-" burp, "Nate'n... What'f you turned over..." 

"Uh. Why?” 

"Shit...I dunno. It’d be, like, yanno.... niiiiice... you got some pretty good arms an’ shit."  
This was gay. This had gone from a little gay to like, a porno. He should've told Pickles to fuck off right there, but something kept him in place. He just heaved a heavy sigh and turned over, dropping one arm around Pickles' and tugging him in against his bare chest. 

Pickles seemed content as hell now, nestling in against his warm, slightly sweaty skin, pressing his mouth against him. Nathan furrowed his brows, looking down at the guy. This was weird. Did he do this shit in his last band? Did he do this with Skwisgaar? With fucking Murderface? What about... Magnus? No, no, this was too much shit, he didn’t like the jealous way his heart twitched at the thought of Pickles going to other people for... whatever this was. Whatever. 

He grunted and sat up, leaned over Pickles (kind of smothering him against his chest) and grabbed a bottle off the bedside table. When in doubt, drink it the fuck away. He unconsciously cradled the guy to his chest as he drank, listening to the quiet little snores escaping his mouth. When he’d finished the bottle he dropped it into the floor, leaning back and looking down at Pickles. He was fully passed out, limp and warm in his arms. That was a little cool. He was like a doll, kinda. 

Nathan ran the pad of his thumb across his cheek, the freckles he could see in the dim light. His vision was blurry. Pickles was cute. He could admit that, now that he was a little more hammered. He liked the way Pickles looked when he was getting drunk, and he liked watching him bend over to snort coke off the kitchen counter, and he… He always chocked it up to admiration. Never looked too far into it. He was drunk, though, and Pickles was asleep, and nobody could call him out on this bullshit right now. 

He shifted back on the bed, let his back hit the wall, heaving the drummer closer, so he could hold his head in both wide hands. Pretty, like a doll. He had smudges of dark, burst blood vessels under his eyes – purple and grey and laced through with blue, like someone had painted him with those little bruises. His skin looked thin there, delicate. Nathan could imagine how easy it’d be to damage further. Not that he was going to. Pickles would probably be pissed if he woke up to Nathan jamming a thumb into his eye. 

It was quiet in the apartment – something that only happened when they’d all run themselves into the ground and passed the hell out at the same time. It was rare for Nathan to be the only one awake, but here he was, examining his bandmate like he was a living, breathing statue. It was probably a little bit gay, but it wasn’t like he was lying here caressing his face or… Well. Whatever. Nobody was here to see him doing it, so did it even happen? 

He let his gaze wander down, take in the freckles and acne dotting Pickles’ cheeks and forehead, the 5 o’clock shadow he’d been sporting for a day or two, the way his lips were dry and cracked. It was all just signs of how little he took care of himself, but Nathan wasn’t going to be the one to reprimand him. It wasn’t like they weren’t all stewing in filth and self-loathing at this point. 

Nathan was thirsty. It struck him sort of suddenly, but the itch was dull. He wanted to get up to get himself more booze, but he didn’t want to sacrifice the fragile, potentially embarrassing position they were in. He exhaled slowly, dropping his fingers lightly against Pickle’s throat, feeling softly along the length of it. There were a few scars there over his jugular – light, mostly faded. Little track marks, but Nathan knew Pickles didn’t like to do his drugs through that vein unless it was unavoidable. Made him itchy, was maybe too dangerous. 

He ran a fingernail across them, felt his pulse under the digit, fingers idling against his skin. There were so many things there, so many fragile tubes and pipes and things. He could remember watching his father carve up animals they’d shot, could remember what the inside of their necks looked like. He’d never seen a human’s, but he imagined it couldn’t be too different. He rested his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, letting the feeling of Pickles’ pulse under his fingertips lull him off to sleep. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pickles woke up first. His neck ached from the angle he’d slept in, and the awareness of something warm and alive pressed against his face relaxed him, at first. He didn’t remember bringing anyone home the night before, but whatever. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He lay there for a few minutes, grunting and rubbing his face against the leg he was laying on. Oh. It was pretty hairy. Did he, uh. Bring a dude home? He wouldn’t do that. Any guy he’d fucked hadn’t stuck around long enough to see the sunrise with him, and he never brought them back to the apartment. Usually that shit ended after a quickie in a nasty club bathroom or something. 

He grimaced as he forced himself into a sitting position, knocking away the heavy hand that was draped across his neck. Who the hell was this, anyway—Oh. Oh shit. Oh fuck.  
“Nate’n?” He sounded a little shriller than he’d intended to, and he felt his brain throb in his skull. He was hungover as shit and spared a moment to be thankful for the fact that Nathan had thick curtains over his windows. “Nathan, wake th’fuck up.” He reached out, slapping a hand against the other man’s cheek. 

Nathan had been snoring loudly, drool dried against his chin where his head had dropped down against his chest. The feeling of getting slapped in the face this early in the morning put him on edge, his first instinct to punch whoever was fucking with him. His eyes came open blearily, hands already balled into fists at his sides. “What the fuck.” He grunted, taking a moment for his eyes to focus on the disheveled, wide-eyed man kneeling in front of him. “Pickles. What the fuck.” 

“Why am I in your bed—No, wait, why am I in your lap?” His voice was thick with spit and his mouth felt cottony and dry, tasted like puke. He wanted to brush his teeth. His brain was running a mile a minute, but not really managing to form anything besides ‘Did Nathan fuck me????’ 

Nathan grunted again, rubbed a hand across his mouth to wipe away the drool. His neck felt like shit from sleeping sitting up like that. He had to piss something awful. It was hard to form sentences this early, his brain still half-asleep and maybe still a little drunk – not that he had an easy time talking even when he was sober. He exhaled heavily, brows furrowed, and shoved Pickles out of the way so he could stumble to the bathroom, pulling his bunched up underwear back into place as he went. 

Pickles watched him go for a few moments, licking at a fresh split in his lip, anxiously sucking at the torn skin. Tasted like metal, didn’t help the already gross feeling in his mouth. He wanted to trail after Nathan, but he didn’t want to have this kind of conversation while the guy had his dick out pissing. He took a minute to try calming down, taking inventory. He wasn’t any sorer than usual, mostly just achy from the angle he woke up in. Probably didn’t get fucked, considering how big Nathan’s dick had looked on the few occasions he’d seen it. Yeah, if he’d had that monster inside him, he’d sure still be feeling it… 

Okay. That was maybe weird. Maybe got him overly excited, maybe he should reevaluate the fact that thinking about Nathan’s ding-dong made his insides twitch weirdly. Whatever. It was too fucking early for this kind of deep thinking in the first place. He groans a little, reaching up to rub at his eyes with his fingers, trying to clear them of sleep-gunk. He needed a drink. He’d been sort-of sober for all of ten seconds and he was already fucking sick of it. 

Another concern rose to mind – if Nathan had gotten handsy, he might’ve realized… something. Might’a noticed the fact that Pickles didn’t have something that Nathan had. His heart was thudding against his chest, breathing suddenly real damn difficult. There was the slightest possibility that maybe he was working himself up into a panic attack, and he was vaguely aware of the fact that he had no fucking clue where his inhaler was. It was stupid. Nathan wasn’t usually the kinda guy to grope his passed-out friends. There wasn’t shit to worry about, and besides, in all honesty Nathan had probably seen him naked before. It wasn’t like Pickles wasn’t blacked the fuck out 24/7.

Nathan strode back in a few moments later, expression not much different from his usual grumpy one. He looked down at the drummer, took in the fact that he was wide-eyed and pale and looked like maybe he was freaking the hell out. He’d seen that look on his face multiple times, and he knew pretty much how to deal with it at this point. He sat down beside Pickles, hooked an arm around his shoulders.  
“Hey. Uh. What are you doing.”

Pickles jumped even though he’d seen Nathan coming from a mile away, trying to stop shivering. He needed a drink. “Uh. Nate.” He curled his hands together in his lap, picked at his torn cuticles. “Why was I sleep’n in your lap.” 

Nathan furrowed his brows, looked down at him. Why was he so sweaty? It was too early to be doing this shit. They hadn’t had breakfast. “Uh. You lit your bed on fire.” Pickles must’ve been pretty out of it the previous night, if he couldn’t even remember that. Nothing too surprising, though. 

Pickles wanted to relax – it was just him being drunk, wandering over to the next bed he could find. He hadn’t done anything gay. Hadn’t made it weird. Nathan wasn’t acting weird, just doing that stilted little things he did when he knew Pickles was freaking the fuck out. It was comforting, that was good.

“Yeah, uh. Okaaay. Okay.” He let out a shaky little laugh, trying to brush it off. His finger was bleeding a little. He shifted to pick at the newer track marks littering his forearm, scratching them with bitten-off fingernails.

Pickles was being weird. Nathan didn’t know why he was being weird. Did he think something weird had happened the night before? That was stupid. Nathan wasn’t gay. Nathan wouldn’t do gay shit. “Why are you freaking out. Did you do something new last night?” He meant the drugs – any time Pickles tried something he hadn’t done before he usually came down kinda hard. 

“No, no, just what I usually do.” He said, exhaling heavily. He wanted to just fucking ask. It was stupid. He was being stupid. “Er, uh. Nathan, uh. Did we, like. Did anything weird happen last night?” 

Nathan raised an eyebrow, and he was already denying it before he had even processed the question fully. “No. No. No. I’m not gay. I don’t do gay shit, Pickles, you fucking know that, I ain’t gay. I’m not GAY.” 

Pickles grimaced, shoving him a little. “Okay, hey, chill the hell out. I was just aaaskin’.” He felt a little better then, knowing for certain Nathan wasn’t being different from normal. He was further distracted by the way his stomach growled. Nathan’s arm was still around him. Made him feel… warm. Nice. That was probably weird, but he’d been full of lots of weird ass thoughts lately, so whatever. He’d just keep on ignoring it.

“I’m starving, man, do we got any cinnamon buns left?” Pickles squirmed out from under his arm, trying to separate himself from the weird shit stewing in the back of his head. He got to his feet, adjusting the tank top he was wearing. Fucking thing always ended up twisted around him uncomfortably, he’d only kept it on because he passed out before he could yank it off. It was kind of a miracle that he’d peeled off his jeans before the whole bed-on-fire situation went down. He wanted a Screwdriver. Wondered if they had any orange juice.

“Uh. Maybe?” Nathan stood up, feeling kind of confused and still a little bristly about all the… weird questions. Whatever. Might as well put that shit behind him. He stretched a little, cracking his knuckles before heading for the doorway. “We can go get shit, if you want.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles takes a shower. Nathan's not gay. The band wakes up. Magnus is kind of a ghost hanging over their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo idk i dont feel like this has as much substance as I wanted it to, but I've fallen real hard for this normal domestic stuff so!!!

Breakfast was always less of a single event and more of a thing that each of the members got up to of their own accord. It also had less of a set time and was probably more easily defined as “just the first meal you eat after you wake up” rather than, like, something you do in the morning. But then again, morning was also just semantics. It wasn’t really worth digging into. 

It was eleven thirty when Nathan and Pickles finally got up, and Pickles said a quiet thank-you to god that Murderface and Skwisgaar were still passed out more or less in the same positions as the night before. He knew for a fact Skwisgaar had downed like four Vicodin, so he didn’t expect him up for at least another couple hours. He was sore as shit from where he’d slept, although he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of having Nathan that close to him, waking up warm and close. Whatever. It wasn’t worth stewing on, he’d just store it in the back of his mind for a rainy day.

Pickles headed straight for his room, intent on at the very least taking a shower. He felt like death warmed over, like he always did after tequila got its hooks into him, and he figured the hot water could help work the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. Sure. He had to step over Skwisgaar to get back down the hall, pausing for the briefest moment to make sure the guy hadn’t aspirated and died in the night.

***

Nathan, on the other hand, made a beeline for the kitchen. His head hurt – the deep, dehydrated feeling of blood pulsing under the bones in his skull. He didn’t like waking up, and he especially didn’t like waking up half-hungover and being questioned about his sexuality or whatever. What was Pickles’ deal? He wasn’t gay, and he sure as hell wasn’t into his drummer. Sure, he maybe thought it was cool when Pickles did certain things, and yeah, maybe he also got a little flushed and queasy when he thought about how pretty his eyes looked in the dim, hazy lights of a bar, but. Whatever. Didn’t mean shit. 

He quelled that nonsense by opening the cabinet beside the fridge, digging out a box of pop tarts. He noted, dully, that they were out of potato chips. Another thing to drop on the grocery list. He was fishing a foil packet out of the box when he remembered Pickles’ question about cinnamon rolls or whatever. Did they have any more? He was kinda hungry for one, now that he thought about it. 

The fridge made a noise as he pulled the door open, the lining having to be unstuck from the body of the fridge. It was always kind of sticky in there, and it wasn’t like anything in this goddamned apartment wasn’t falling apart. It was fine. It was grungy and they could do whatever they wanted in it, and that was pretty Metal. It made for good inspiration.  
It turned out, by the grace of god, there were a couple of those shitty little pre-made cinnamon buns left in the fridge. They were probably close to going bad – they’d made them about a week previously, and severely burnt like four of them – but Nathan figured he’d eaten worse shit. He’d brushed his teeth already but his mouth still felt dry, gluey. With a heavy sigh he reached around the milk with his other hand, drawing out a bottle of beer. He set his breakfast on the counter, digging out a paper plate so he could microwave a couple of the cinnamon rolls. He didn’t wanna eat that shit cold. 

***

The water in the shower was hot – probably too hot, but he was always so fucking cold, and it made him feel cleaner this way. It turned his pale skin red as a lobster, but it wasn’t like anyone was in there to say shit. He’d found himself a bottle of cheap liquor propped against the bathroom mirror, next to his toothbrush, and was leaning back against the shower wall with the bottle in hand. The bathroom was steamy already, thick and making it just a little hard to breathe, but whatever. He was feeling better already, the wet air clearing his sinuses and the booze making him feel more level-headed. 

He shut his eyes, tipped his head back against the damp linoleum. Shitty apartment didn’t even have tiles, everything seemed to either be peeling, yellowed plastic or just straight up concrete. The wallpaper in his room was some kind of faded blue pattern, although he’d desecrated it pretty fully with stains and crude spray-paint drawings. 

It was kind of exhausting in this shitty little place, but it was home. More home than he’d ever had in his life, and he got to spend his time with people who, for the most part, didn’t make him want to crawl in bed with a bottle full of pills and sleep for the next century. 

There was an unspoken easiness with each other that had taken a while to coalesce – each of them came with a nice, shiny set of issues, and none of them were prone to talk them over. They weren’t pussies. Pussies have feelings, pussies whine about their daddy issues and their traumatic pasts. They were rock stars, and rock stars didn’t bitch and moan every chance they got. They didn’t scratch themselves open when they got anxious, or wake up screaming in the middle of the night. They’d made an unspoken vow to never pick into each other’s emotional bullshit.

Something about knowing none of them were exactly fine kind of made them all fine, though. It was a balance that, while maybe not healthy, kept them all distracted and making killer music, and that was how they liked it. Pickles drew a deep breath, careful to keep his dreads out of the water, and shifted his weight so he could take a long, slow pull from the bottle in his hand. It tasted like shit, burned his sore throat, but it woke him up. Made him feel something close to human.

***

The cinnamon rolls were beyond stale, but they made him feel better as he stuffed them into his mouth. Nathan had had to knock Murderface’s legs out of the way so he could worm his way onto the couch, broad body pressed tightly up against the arm of the seat. Hed turned on the TV, watching whatever happened to be on VH1 at the moment. One day they'd be up there, he thought idly. He knew every band in the world wanted to make it big, but there had always been that feeling in the pit of his stomach - ever since he was a little kid - that he was destined for greatness. 

The sound of the shower running in the other room kept distracting him, drawing his eyes to the hallway. It was dark down there, but he could hear the water hitting the tub. It seemed so loud for some reason, drawing his attention away from the tv. He thought about Pickles, about Pickles swallowing down booze, about Pickles asking him to roll over, about Pickles saying he had nice arms, pressing his mouth to his chest. Thought about Pickles right that moment, probably flushed and wet and leaned up against the wall -- 

"Wha-Whach the fuchk...." Murderface shattered the weird, weird place his thoughts were headed, and he thought that might be the very first time he was happy to hear the man talk. He was halfway slid off the couch, looking thoroughly disoriented as he opened his eyes, grimaced. "Nathan did you fuckin push me into the floor?" He grunted, the sound of spit in his mouth making Nathan dream briefly of murder. He usually didn't mind that shit, but Murderface always sounded like a dying toad this early in the morning. 

He grunted in response to the question, not really answering as his gaze fell back on the television. The host of the show was talking about some kind of celebrity blow-up - nothing new, and none of the famous people he was interested in, but he felt kind of like hed been caught with his hand down his pants for some reason. He didn't know why his face felt so hot, or why he was so irritated. He'd just been thinking about his best friend. Nothing weird. 

Murderface made a series of ungraceful sounds as he tried to get up, eventually slipping fully into the floor and sitting there, back against the couch. "It's gettin' kinda cold." He mumbled, scrubbing the palm of his hand against his eyes. "Is the heat on?" 

The heat was, in fact, not on. It had been turned on the night before, sure, but it seemed like maybe it had stopped working again. Nathan got up to check anyway, feeling like he needed to make himself busy. He dropped his plate on the cluttered coffee table, wandering over to the thermostat. "Uh... it's on? Its cold in here, though." 

"Mh. Guess wes oughta call, uh... man. Aparktement man." Skwisgaar pitched in, apparently awake, although he still had his head tucked under his arm and his body sprawled across the nasty carpet. He had trouble speaking English usually, and this early after he got up was definitely not going to improve the situation. 

Nathan did not at all want to call their landlord. It wasn't that he really gave a shit about what the boys did to his apartment building -- they'd already destroyed any hope they had of getting the security deposit back, and he was used to renting places out to drug addled assholes like them. It was just that Nathan fucking hated talking to people - he barely spoke outside of the band, with the obvious exception of singing. Maybe they could make Pickles do it this time. 

"We can do it later." He exhaled, dropping back into his place on the cracked, torn leather sofa. It stank like piss and beer and Murderface's feet, but he didn't mind too much. The whole apartment smelled like that anyway.  
***

By the time Pickles got out of the shower, all the hot water had run out and he was working on a nice, healthy buzz. Felt good. He stumbled over to the sink, grabbing a towel to clear a space in the mirror. He huffed a little as he noticed the hair on his chin. He should shave. Magnus said it made him look old, said the goatee bullshit was lame - but Magnus was gone. The thought struck him so suddenly and so hard that it kind of made his head spin. Gone. Magnus was gone. He'd been kicked out of the band and no amount of creepy blood-stained messages was going to change that.

Pickles knew he should be happy. He kind of always got knocked around by the guy. Nathan wouldn't exactly take his shit, and Skwisgaar was virtually immovable as far as pressure went, but Pickles and Murderface were somewhat easy targets. It was like Magnus could smell weakness on them, and it made him aim for the throat. He should be thrilled he was gone, wasn't there to tell him what to do, to scream at him when he broke the rules, to wrap a bony hand in his hair, shove his head against a wall-- 

Whatever. He should've been happy, relieved. What he felt now, though, was mostly just a dry sense of dread. No matter how dramatic all that "revenge is coming" bullshit was, he knew first hand just how unstable that asshole had been. It made his hands shaky, the blood draining from his face at the thought of Magnus getting one of his friends off-guard, maybe doing a little more damage with that knife, this time. 

He exhaled against the mirror, shook his head. That was stupid. Paranoid. Nathan could take care of himself, and so could the rest of the band. Dully, he rolled his shoulders, cracked a few joints, and reached for his toothbrush. His fingers did not shake.  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue how to center my line breaks ahhhh sorry abt that
> 
> Comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading <3


	3. Flashback #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles thinks back on things that happened after Snakes and Barrels disbanded, mostly centering around the night he met Nathan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a lot of practice with flashback chapters but I wanna dig into the backstory a little, so here we go. <3 
> 
> Also fair warning I get the feeling rn that the rating isn't gonna stay T for TEEN but I'll change it as needed.

When Snakes n’ Barrels had dissolved in a pool of heroin and booze, Pickles had felt… Pretty lost. Pretty scared. At the same time, though, it was shockingly freeing. The band hadn’t been good for him by any stretch, especially after the rush of fame had melted into constant hangovers and bimonthly overdoses. He loved the fact that he was making something of himself, but something about the people he was with just kind of made him want to tear his hair out. Sure, he didn’t _hate_ them, but they… they didn’t make him feel comfortable. They weren’t friends, they were just people he made music with. 

Besides, sitting by while the rest of the band started to choke up and tread water wasn’t any fun. They couldn’t hold their drugs and booze like he could - they were rotting and he was in the prime of his fucking life. It was exhausting to watch, and he’d been kind of itching to run since it had started to get bad. He’d never been one to stick around when shit hit the fan. 

The music and the glitter and the spandex was all great for a while, sure, it got him out of his shithole home town, got him away from his family, got him enough pussy and dope to last him until he was in the grave, but… It was all just tired, after a while. It was corny and starting to feel like the same old shit, and something about the aesthetics had started to grind against him. He wanted out. He wanted away from all the glitz that went along with the genre -- he wanted something new, and hard, and dark. Something that would give him an outlet for the frustrations he was still dealing with.

He had met Nathan only a week after Snakes n’ Barrels finally collapsed like the rotted, drug-addled corpse it had become. The breakup was less of a fight and more of a death rattle - it hadn’t even involved that much arguing, which was kind of amazing considering how many fights had broken out in the months prior. Maybe it helped that half the band was in the process of getting court-ordered into rehab. Whatever it was, they had all just kind of quietly taken their shit and put in their proverbial resignations.

Pickles had been happy to see it go, in the end. Even if it meant he was suddenly unemployed and potentially going to get kicked out of his apartment if he couldn’t find himself a new gig. He’d work it out. He always had managed to keep himself from sliding through the cracks. 

Nathan had been leaned over the counter in a dirty little metal bar named “Judas’s Prick”, knocking back lukewarm, skunky beer like he was trying to drown himself when Pickles met him. It wasn’t a place that he frequented, but he’d taken to lurking around nastier clubs since the break. He didn’t want to get recognized. There was too much bullshit on his mind and he was all too eager to erase it with booze, preferably without having to deal with thirsty fans hounding him for autographs. 

He’d dropped himself onto the barstool like he’d just gotten the news that he was dying, unintentionally bumping into Nathan’s arm as he ordered, “Whatever’s gonna get me wasted the fastest."

Nathan wasn’t usually punchy (unless someone tried punching him first, or if they looked at him funny, or called him something fucking stupid, or if he’d had too much tequila… yeah), so when he got a bony elbow to the arm, his immediate response was only _kind of_ to punch whoever it belonged to. He shifted, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn into a scowl as he tried to focus his bleary gaze on the man beside him.

The bar was hazy, and Pickles was leaned all over the countertop, hair shoved back under a sweaty bandana and eyes glittering in the dim amber lights. Nathan was jarred slightly by a dull echo in the back of his head, something he’d been ignoring off and on for his whole life. It was always soft, like a murmur, something urging him forward – little almost-words that ushered his actions along. When he’d been younger it had compelled him to step into the ocean, to write words he didn’t quite understand about subjects so nasty that it made his parents drop him in a series of unsuccessful therapist’s offices. 

This time, the voice wanted him to grab the sweaty man sitting next to him and kiss him. A series of scenes flashed behind his eyes so fast he could barely make sense of them; drums and booze bottles and red-lit rooms and blood and laughter – hundreds of little snapshots that were there and then gone, leaving him with no real memory besides an unsettled feeling in his stomach. Something in the back of his head whispered the words _"go into the water,"_ as if he was supposed to know what that meant. As if he was supposed to understand why that phrase was always floating around the hollow insides of his skull, or what it meant in this context. 

Pickles was acutely aware of the feeling of being stared at. It wasn’t uncommon for people to be looking at him, and he figured it was pretty stupid of him to assume nobody would recognize him. He turned towards the man sitting next to him, one eyebrow raised. “Uh. Hey, man. What’s up?” He looked Nathan over, taking in the weird, glazed over look in his eyes. He was pretty stacked, pretty cute, probably the kinda guy he’d let take him into the back alley if they were interested. Not that he had set out with the intention of getting fucked but, hey, he was always pretty easy to convince. 

Nathan didn’t say anything in return, just sat stock still and stared at him for a few moments. It was a little awkward, made Pickles’ heart flip in his chest, and he let out an uncomfortable laugh. Maybe the guy hadn’t heard him the first time. “Uh… Hello? You want an autograph or somethin’?” 

There was silence between them, drowning out the sound of the club into a low drone in the background. It was like they were in a vacuum. Nathan knew he should’ve responded, knew he was supposed to be contributing, but he was wasted and barely present enough as is. He couldn’t stop looking at his eyes. He wanted to curl his fingers in his hair. This was weird. He was being weird. 

Pickles didn’t know what to do. He was used to getting stared at, sure, but he was used to people usually asking him things at the same time. He was used to getting fawned over or felt up or asked to fight. He wasn’t used to beefy guys who looked like they could pop his head like a grape just. Staring at him. It was kind of unsettling, even if the man himself didn’t necessarily make him uncomfortable. He kinda felt drawn to him, even if he was just… looking at him. 

Maybe if he kept talking, filled up the void between them with words, the guy would actually respond to something eventually. He found himself kind of desperate to hear the other man’s voice (not that he was going to delve too deeply into the reasons behind that).

“So, uh, like… are you from around here? I ain’t, I mean, I ain’t from LA. I’m from Wisconsin.” He took a long drink from what the bartender had handed him and kept going. “Tomahawk. You ever been there? It’s like, not great. I mean, unless you’re in the market for weird ass religious billboards and like… every one of your neighbors knowing your fuckin’ business.” He laughs, reedy and anxious because he’d started thinking about home and home always made him want to shove a gun down his own throat. 

Nathan still wasn’t talking. Just watching him, listening to him. There was a split in the middle of Pickles’ bottom lip and he watched the skin stretch as he spoke, watched him take a drink and come back with blood just barely staining the surface. He wanted to wipe it away for him. Wanted to lick it off him. 

Pickles had finished his first drink faster than he had any reason to, immediately tapping the bar and asking for another. He was getting good and ready to get real shitfaced, especially considering he’d opened the can of worms that was thinking about his parent’s house. If he didn’t have a band what was he going to do? Would he have to go back home? Beg his father to let him in? Live with those fucking assholes… with Seth? The thought made his blood run cold, made his chest seize up. There was no way in hell. He’d sooner live under a fucking bridge. 

“So, uh. Yeah. Wisconsin. Heh. Shithole.” He swallowed, shifted on his barstool. His hands were sweaty. “LA’s a shithole too, but I like it better. Easier to get reeeeeal high, better rock scene, too. Yeah.” Nathan seemed to perk up at the mention of music, his fingers tightening around his glass and one eyebrow raising. 

“Oh, uh. I’m in a band. I’m in Snakes and Barrels – I’m Pickles, from Snakes an’ Barrels.” He rushed through it, eager to introduce himself – everyone had to know who he was, had to know how important he was, how well he was doing. 

Finally, as if he’d just been waiting for an appropriate place to break in, Nathan opened his mouth. “Didn’t, um… Didn’t they break up? Glam rock really isn’t my kind of, uh. Shit.” His voice came out low and gravelly as always, maybe a little more judgmental than he’d intended for it to sound. 

There was another drink in his hand, momentarily distracting him from answering. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that, anyway. The fact that word had spread of the break up wasn’t exactly shocking, but hearing the words come from someone else’s mouth was weird. “Oh, uh, I mean. Yeaaah… Yeah we’re, uh. We’re done. To be honest with ya, I was getting kinda tired of it myself. Like, I want something harder, yanno? Something with a little more substance, with like, real bite to it.” He gestured vaguely with his glass, spilling straight vodka on the leg of his pants. “Somethin’ darker, I guess?” 

Darker? Nathan could do darker. He’d been swaddled in that kind of shit since he was born. “Darker like what, like, uh, punk shit? That stuff’s for pussies.” He chuckled, awkward. His hands were knotted together on the bar top. “I’ve always wanted to do something, like, metal. I’ve kind of been writing lyrics and shit since I was a kid. I kicked around a couple of garage bands, but not, um… Not much stuck, I guess. Never exactly brutal enough for me.” 

That had been it, that had been the start of it. The two of them had stayed in the bar until four in the morning, prattling on about metal and music and assholes who they didn’t ever want to have to see again. Once Nathan had really started talking to him, Pickles had felt something click inside him. This was what he’d been missing. This was someone he felt more comfortable with than any of the other people in any of the other bands he’d ever been in, and he’d only known the guy for a couple of hours. It kind of felt too good to be true, not that he’d get sappy about it. 

They’d exchanged numbers, worked things out, left to their respective apartments grinning and black out drunk and happier than either of them had been for a while. There was something swelling in their chests, a kind of needling hopefulness that didn’t vanish even when they woke up in the morning – hungover and stinking like booze and cigarette smoke and vomit. 

The band had come together exceptionally easy after all that. The two of them made plans, held auditions. Pickles wanted to try his hand at the drums, realized he actually fucking loved it. He’d done a little drumming back in highschool, but those days were distant and hard to remember. When he was playing with Nathan it felt better. It felt right. It felt like they were a couple of puzzle pieces someone had finally stuck together. 

The try outs went smooth enough. They got their hands on a creepy Swedish dude who played guitar faster than anyone else either of them had ever seen. It was actually kind of surprising that the guy was willing to work with them, but all he said was that he liked the way they sounded and felt like maybe they could hold up against his playing. Then there was Murderface – he’d stumbled into the auditions looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, but he was damn good, and despite being generally kind of off-putting, he fit in just fine. 

Magnus was the last piece, they had all thought. He was older than them, and a good deal wealthier, and he seemed so nice. He was really damn friendly, bought them all drinks and dinner and complimented them. Pickles had kind of fell for the guy immediately – not in a gushy, heart-eyes kind of way, just… Like. He wanted to get close to him. He didn’t really investigate those thoughts much further, just leaned over to Nathan and told him that the guy belonged in the band. 

Everything was good. Hell, it was better than good, it was great. Magnus had the funds to get them places and seemed happy enough to do it, practices and shows were fun enough even with Murderface and Skwisgaar bickering constantly. Shit was going better than they could’ve ever imagined. Hell, they even got themselves an agent – Charles or Charlie or whatever – and he got them a record deal. A record deal! 

Shit had gotten good fast, and Pickles had felt like maybe, for once, he was going to come out on top for good. But, that was before Magnus had started to get weirder (well, he’d been weird for a while, but they’d all pushed it aside as stress, as concern for the band) and all that shit was in the past. Now, they were down one bandmate and had already promised to make a record, and he was feeling the same way he had back when S &B had broken up, the same kind of lost, nauseating unsureness. The weirdest thing was that he kind of felt just as relieved now, after Magnus was gone, as he had way back then. Like maybe it was just another open door. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki's here! I apologize if this kinda. Fucks off and skips ahead but I was having a lot of trouble making anything transitionary that didn't feel too filler-y or lame so. Here we go. A couple weeks in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize 1000 times if my Norwegian is incorrect, I google translated it OTL,, i like to think Toki wouldn't have been exposed to much that his parents didn't want him to be exposed to, so I figure he learns to speak English primarily through Immersion,, idk.

Pickles sauntered into the room holding a plastic cup, two fingers curled loosely around the rim of it. He was probably close to spilling the contents, but nobody said anything – nobody really looked up when he came in, anyway. It was noon and he was dressed in nothing but a pair of tighy-whities and a t-shirt that read “WPI: Wisconsin Polytechnic Institute” across its faded front. 

“So,” he paused, took a sip of his drink, “I hear we got our new kid all moved in, huh?” The answer to that was obvious – Toki was seated in the middle of the livingroom floor, playing with _Jacks_ , of all things. Like it was the goddamned eighties or seventies or 1830s or whenever that old ass game got invented. He looked up when Pickles spoke, just as wide-eyed and full of nervous wonder as he had been when he’d stepped into the garage a few days prior. 

“Ja, um, theys really helps me gets settled!” He faltered, scooped up the little metal pieces in his hand and fidgeted with them. He was still nervous, like it was his first day of school or some shit. Nobody else in the room seemed even mildly interested – laying around and minding their own business. Nathan was fumbling awkwardly with the bandage on his shoulder. (It’d mostly healed, but he’d picked at it so often that he’d decided to just leave the covering on at this point.) 

“Oh yeah? Well that’s cool, uh huh.” Pickles hiccupped a little, walked over to Nathan’s side and sat down, elbowing him a little to get him to quit picking. “Sorry I ain’t, uh. Been all that present.” He gestures vaguely with his cup, as if that was supposed to explain something. 

Murderface piped up then, not looking up from his magazine. “Picklesh is always drinking, but he’s especially depreshed cuz he doesn’t have Magnus’s dick to suck anymore.” He snickered a little.

The room grew tenser, Pickles gritting his teeth and averting his eyes to the coppery fluid he was holding. Almost time for a refill. 

Nathan grunted softly. “Shut the fuck up, Murderface.” He didn’t sound all that aggressive, but anything he said sort of came out with an air of authority behind it, and Murderface frowned, mumbled “just sayin’…” and went back reading. 

Pickles wanted to thank him, but he didn’t. Shit like that was emotional and stupid and not worth it. Nathan had some inkling of the fact that Pickles was handling this breakup more bizarrely and personally than the rest of them, and that was enough. He didn’t need details.

Toki watched the exchange happen, brows furrowed. He really still had no idea who Magnus was, and he was sort of too afraid to ask. Probably nobody important, and he didn’t want to put anyone in a bad mood… Not that he could really tell if any of them were ever in a good mood in the first place, with the way they were always sulking. 

The air in the room remained heavy and sullen for a time after that – Toki continuing to occupy himself with his game and the others doing what they did best – lazing around and trying not to think about much of anything. It was an ambiance Toki was somewhat used to – back home in Norway things were often quiet and brooding, but here at the very least he was allowed to stay inside where it was warm. He wasn’t being told he was doing anything wrong here, and nobody was punishing him or forcing him to work. 

It was sort of weird, adjusting to that. He’d been away from home for almost a year already – working odd-jobs in Norway until he could afford a plane ticket, going without meals, having only the clothes on his back and his guitar. He’d been able to work in the music shop for a considerable amount of time prior to leaving for America, and that had been one of the first happy times in his life. 

This was turning out to be another very happy time. 

Despite how dreary and grumpy it was here so far, none of it felt… mean-spirited. Despite the constant arguing, the band really did seem to work well together, even from the little Toki had seen so far. Perhaps that was just him being hopeful, but he didn’t see anything wrong with that. Hopefulness had carried him through many dark times in the past, and that same hope seemed to still be with him. The apartment might’ve been crowded and dirty, but it was the first place he’d ever lived that really felt like home. 

He wanted to say something, to thank them all for the hundredth time, but last time he’d gotten sappy about his new friends, Skwisgaar had told him not to be so emotional, that it made him sound like a girl.

He didn’t want to sound like a girl! He wanted to be cool, for his bandmates to appreciate him. So he’d hold his tongue and practice looking sulky, for the time being. After all, Nathan had mentioned that he couldn’t be so cheery on stage. It’d upset the balance. 

Nathan broke the silence this time, Pickles leaned up against his side and half-asleep. “So, uh. We’ve got another show this weekend. The guy, um… Offdensen? He said if we rock this one we’ll be doing, like. Really good. Really fucking good.” 

The other members finally looked up, the atmosphere shifting almost imperceptibly. Skwisgaar sat up, did not stop pinging away at the strings of his unplugged guitar. “Yous guys should practice. I don’t wants to one-up you again.” He sounded smug as always, but the corner of his lips curled up in a smirk. 

Murderface told him to shut up, “I don’t need to practice. I’ve got a god-given talent.” He scowled, narrowed his eyes. 

“Gods givens talent for being bad ats the bass.” 

“Oh, fuck you! That is so typical, you’re such a fucking diva. You’re just too stupid to see how good I am, Skwisgaar. They don’t have talent in Finland.” 

“SWEDEN! I AMS FROM SWEDEN!” Skwisgaar was immediately angry, shouting at the bass player and lapsing into a fit of angry curses. 

Toki swallowed, flinched a little. He didn’t mind the shouting all the time, but sometimes it’d catch him off guard. Nathan had an eye on the kid, frowned when he watched him fidget, tense up. “Uh. Pickles.” He leaned over, elbowed the drummer in the ribcage. 

Pickles sat up with a snort, spilled what was left of his drink all over his left thigh. “Fuck- Jesus, what? Did I forget to turn off th’oven again?” He looked up at Nathan, one eyebrow raised, seemingly not noticing the way Skwisgaar and Murderface were bickering. 

Nathan took a second glance at Toki, frown deepening. “I think there’s something wrong with the kid.” 

“Kid- Oh, uh.” He frowns right back at him, eyes meeting the back of Toki’s head, the way his shoulders were bunched up, like he was preparing himself to get hit or something. 

“Should we like… Say somethin’?” 

Nathan was going to answer, but Pickles had already leaned forward, “Hey. Heeeey, Toki. Tooooki.” 

Toki turned around, eyes as wide as saucers, hair falling in his face a little. “Uh… Ah. Ja, Pickle?” 

Pickles tried to smile at him, probably ended up looking a good deal more uncomfortable than intended. Too many teeth. Smelled like booze. “How ya doing there, man? Look a little tense.” 

As fuzzy and uncomfortable as Toki felt, Pickles’ weird smile and attempt at asking about him seemed to lift just a little of the thick nausea settling in his chest. “Ja… Ja, jeg er helt greit.” He frowned a little, searching for the words. He’d learned English when he was younger, and had picked some of it up from eavesdropping on people, but his parents hadn’t allowed him too much exposure to the outside world, so it was still quite an uphill climb. He could understand it decently, at least. “Er. Ams okay.” 

Pickles didn’t know what to do, hadn’t really planned past the point of asking if he was doing okay. Nathan wasn’t going to be any help if past experiences lent anything, so he just sort of. Smiled harder. “Yeah, uh… Cooool. Cool. So like. You’re from, uh. Was it Norway? Must be cold up there.” 

Norway wasn’t exactly what Toki wanted to be thinking about, especially considering the way his head was trying to put him back there, back home with the pain and the scolding and the cold, cold darkness.

The way his expression fell let Pickles see just how much of a mistake that comment was and he scrabbled to correct himself. “Uh. You watched any tv? I imagine there’s some stuff you gotta like here in the states.” He scooted forward, grabbed the remote off the end table, flicked on their shitty little television.

“Um…” Toki had watched a little TV while he’d been working, but his experience in the US had primarily been one of living on sidewalks and in parking garages, so he really hadn’t experienced much besides Norwegian news channels or the occasional metal program. 

Pickles flicked rapidly through the channels, head aching. He needed to go get more booze, and maybe have a nap. Trying to comfort people really wasn’t his strong suit. “Here. Ya just press the arrows,” He gestured with a thumb, “to change the channels. Go on til ya find something you like.” 

Toki shifted to face the TV set more fully, mindlessly sweeping his Jacks into a neat pile in front of his crossed legs, and took the remote. “Thank you, Pickle. You’re, um. Very kind.” He offered him a watery smile, eyes still sort of unfocused as he settled them on the screen, flicking through until he found something bright and flashy.  
He stopped there, attention fully drawn to the bright cartoonish animals, their cute little faces, the particularly violent antics they were getting up to. He was hooked immediately, given something to focus on, to draw him a little further out of his dissociation. 

Nobody protested too much – they’d all watched their fair share of cartoons in the past, and even if they hadn’t, nothing else was on right now anyway. It wasn’t long before the room had settled back into peaceful silence, half of them watched the tv while Pickles passed out against Nathan’s side and Skwisgaar continued plucking the strings of his guitar.  
Practicing anything could wait a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you liked this, my blog is striderfvcker.tumblr.com
> 
> My SFW ao3 account is http://archiveofourown.org/users/striderfvcker/pseuds/striderfvcker


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